


The Hound of the White City

by dolamrotha



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-13 08:06:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17484344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dolamrotha/pseuds/dolamrotha
Summary: Another one-shot that was begging to become something else!





	1. First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> Another one-shot that was begging to become something else!

There is a dog standing in front of him with its hackles raised and its teeth bared, and it is such an unexpected thing that Eomer finds himself merely standing there, staring at it. It is large, it is advancing, but it bears a leather collar. A great, dark, shaggy dog, near as tall as a man. 

Will the battles never cease, he wonders? 

But before he can so much as reach for his sword, a soft female voice calls out a command, and the dog’s ears flick back. Its lips lowers over its teeth. 

The soft female voice speaks again and the dog lowers itself on its haunches, though its eyes do not leave Eomer - - not for a moment. Then, from the shadows of the courtyard, a young woman appears, lays her hand upon the dog’s great shoulder. 

“As my poor friend cannot speak to ask your pardon, I fear that duty falls to me.” 

She is young, though no child - - - a young woman with long dark hair that falls in curls down to her waist. Beside the dog, she is merely a slip of a thing, slender as a water-reed, and her voice is soft. So soft, in fact, it seems impossible she could have commanded the dog with no more than two words, and yet it has not moved from her side. Though, despite her words, he does not look as if he would ask forgiveness, speaking or no. 

“He was my cousin’s, you see. He raised this dog from a pup. When he died, the dog found solace in my uncle’s company, for they were much alike. But my uncle did not live to see the end of the battle. Now I am the one he knows most well, and so he follows me.” 

“Then you have a fierce defender, lady. But I would keep a close eye upon him. I mean you no harm. Yet it seemed as though he meant harm to me.” 

She strokes the dog’s head with a gentle hand, looks down upon it with sad eyes. 

“His world has changed,” she says, quite simply. “He has not yet learned how to live in it.” When she looks at Eomer again, there is something familiar in her face, though he cannot say what. Feminine lines constructing a face whose likeness he has seen in a different form, upon the fields of war. 

She is someone’s daughter, then, but whose? 

“If you will not accept an apology on his behalf, will you accept my own? I admit, I was paying him but little mind. I did not hear your step, or I would have called him to me before you came.” 

He is out of his depth, it seems. She is all Gondorian, that much is plain, all pretty words and courtly phrases. And she is the only thing so much untouched by war that he has seen in many days. For there is sadness, yes, and even grief within her eyes, but gentleness and trust and innocence that could not have withstood more than learned-of loss. 

“I would be glad to, my lady. But I do not know who apologizes.” 

“For that, I must apologize. We have not been introduced. By all rights, I suppose I should not be speaking with you further.” 

It is a curious thing to say, he thinks, but then Gondorian manner and customs of propriety are all but foreign to him, still. 

“Do you need an introduction to speak with me?” 

“Oh, yes.” But her smile calls dimples into her cheeks, and there is something in her eyes that speaks of a will beyond softness. “But as it is only the three of us, and certainly my protector would have introduced us, had he been blessed with human speech, I suppose that I must make my own. I am Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil. I came with my mother and my brothers from Dol Amroth,” 

“You’re  _Imrahil’s_ daughter.” 

She nods, and it is the same grave dip of the head her father might offer. The eyes are like her father’s, her nose and her chin, though the smile is unfamiliar - - a gift from her mother, perhaps. 

“And you are Eomer, King of Rohan.” 

Of course she knows who he is. It seems that everyone does, now. He isn’t sure he likes it. In fact, he’s not yet entirely convinced that he likes the girl, either. He knows he does not like the dog, who is still eyeing him with a guard-dog’s gaze. She looks too much as though she is examining him, measuring him up, adding the parts together, and he cannot know what whole she makes of him. 

He’s only certain it can’t possibly be the right one, though why it rankles so is beyond his reckoning. 


	2. Lothiriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth doesn't miss much. Sometimes his daughter wishes he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, that means I didn't accidentally delete the whole chapter this time.

In Dol Amroth she woke to the crashing of the sea. When she rose, she could peer through filmy window-hangings to see the sunlight glittering on the crests of waves, the wheeling gulls, the flash and splash of playing porpoises. The light was clear and warm and low, brightening slowly to a full and golden volume that spilled into every room. 

In Minas Tirith, she wakes to the sound of harps and drums and tambourines, flutes and voices. There's a thin, bright light, clean and piercing, sliding through a chink in her bed-hangings, and (of course) the sound of the dog's breathing close to her ear. Since the day she had first come to Minas Tirith, he had refused to leave her side. When she rises, the cold pale stone of the floor makes her shiver, the only half-familiar house strange and quiet all around her. Her father's house near the citadel has been mostly untouched, all damage merely to the face of it and not to the structure. Such things can wait for repairs until the celebrations have all ended and life returns to fields of work and labor. 

Her room has the feeling of a guest's chambers, so long has it been since she's stayed here. It moves her through the routines of the morning with unusual quickness: hands and face and neck washed in the basin of cool water, dressing with the help of the handmaiden who slips into the room with a curtsy. All of this the dog watches from his place on Lothiriel's bed, head at rest aside the large paws crossed in front of him. 

"Your father and mother are at breakfast, my lady," the handmaiden says as she braids back pieces of Lothiriel's hair, winds the braid in intricate patterns around her head. Lothiriel nods and thanks her as the last pins slip through the braids, beckons to the dog with a word and a tap of her hand against her leg. For a moment, he only yawns, stretches and rolls onto his back on the bed, tongue lolling, and Lothiriel cannot help but laugh. 

"Oh, a fearsome creature indeed!" She says. " _Come_ , you great silly beast." With one last roll, he obeys, jumping to his feet on the bed and giving his body a great shake, from the tip of his nose to tip of the tail. Satisfied at last, he hops down to join his chosen companion, his head at a level with her hip as they walk to breakfast. 

Her father and mother are nearly finished eating by the time Lothiriel joins them: her father has always woken by dawn, her mother not long after. Only Erchirion has joined them, eating a roll of bread studded with raisins when Lothiriel enters. 

"Has Amrothos not woken yet?" She asks, plucking a cluster of grapes from the tray of fresh fruits. The dog takes his place by her side as she sits, rests his head on her knee to look up at her with wide, pleading eyes. 

"We will not see him 'til high noon," Erchirion mutters, "He is overfond of celebrations, our brother." 

"And of dancing," Lothiriel replies with a giggle, slipping a piece of cold chicken beneath the table, where the dog takes it happily....though not quietly. From the corner of her eye, she sees her mother's lips press. 

"And of wine," Erchirion says. "He drank enough for three men last night..." 

"Lothiriel, I do wish you would not feed that dog at table," her mother says. "You may allow him the scraps when we are finished, but he should take them in the kitchen." 

"Yes, Naneth," Lothiriel agrees, all meekness even as she lets the dog take the crust of bread she has folded into the grip of her palm. 

Her father shakes his head, though she knows him well enough to see the smile he hides. 

"Speaking of celebrations," Imrahil says, "Where did you disappear to last night, Lothiriel? One moment I saw you dancing with your brother and the next you were gone." 

(The cool breath of air in a moonlit garden. A low warning growl. A man with hair bright as sunlight and eyes that flashed in the light.) 

"It grew too crowded for me, Ada," she says. "I took a walk with Huor for a time, in one of the walled gardens." 

Her father's eyes linger on her, bright grey and too knowing, and beneath their gaze Lothiriel's cheeks flush pink. To busy herself, she plucks another grape from the bunch. 

Nothing untoward had happened, nothing even remotely of concern, and yet she cannot help but squirm beneath her father's gaze. Still, he asks her nothing more, simply nods and returns to the letter he had been reading. 

"Very well," he says. "Though it is a pity. I meant to introduce you to a friend of mine, yet when the time came I could find neither you nor my friend." 

"It was very crowded, Ada," Lothiriel says, gently stroking one of the dog's ears as a distraction. Though the way that he looks up at her makes her think he knows what she is speaking of. There is a wisdom to those big dark eyes that Lothiriel has never seen in any of her father's hunting dogs. 

 "Which friend is this?" Erchirion asks, leaning back in his chair, idly spinning an apple between his fingers. 

"Eomer of Rohan," says Imrahil. "We shall be traveling with him to Rohan for the burial of his uncle." 

Lothiriel coughs, the juice of the grape she had just bitten into catching somewhat in her throat. 

"So you see," her father says, the tiniest quirt of that secretive smile on his lips. "It is of utmost importance that all of you meet him. For this and other reasons." For he had not missed the whispers of the golden-haired lady his nephew had kissed. "We leave in three days' time." 

Three days' time! She blinks, sets the bunch of grapes down again. She was sure that Rohan's king had not much liked her. And how could he, when he had been greeted as though he were an enemy? (And yet, how could she blame the dog for thinking a stranger - - and one so tall and strong - - a threat to her, when she was all alone?) 

"Three days?" Lothiriel exclaims, "But, Ada, that is no time at all! How are we to prepare?" 

"I have given orders to have your things made ready, daughter, never fear," he says. 

"And what of Huor?" The dog's ears perk at the sound of his name, and he leans his shoulder heavily against Lothiriel's chair. 

"As he will not leave your side, I do not see any way around his coming with us," her father says, though despite the words the smile only grows upon his lips. The dog had growled at Imrahil when they had first found him, on the floor beside Faramir's bed in the Houses of Healing, and yet Imrahil had seemed to develop a fondness for the beast the moment he had attached himself to Lothiriel. "It shall be a long trip, but I think he may like the chance to stretch his legs." 

Satisfied, at least, that she will not lose her companion, Lothiriel only nods. 

"How long shall we stay?" She asks, but her father only shakes his head. 

"The old king must be buried and the new one formally crowned," he said at last. "We shall stay however long we must, to see that both are done. Perhaps some of us shall stay longer. Rohan has suffered much in the war, and I would be of help to them. Whether by my own hand or by the hands of my sons." 

"If you mean Amrothos, it may be a mercy to send him back home before the trip begins," Erchirion grumbles, rolling his eyes as he bites into the apple. 

"What trip is this?" Amrothos asks as he collapses into the chair beside Lothiriel, carelessly reaching out to scratch Huor's ears. The dog, who likes Lothiriel's brothers nearly as much as he likes her, allows it with only a grumble. He plucks three rolls from the basket in front of them, eating one in a mere two bites much to their mother's displeasure. "Where are we going?" 

"You shall not be going anywhere," their mother says with a pointed look, "Until you learn some table-manners." 

Amrothos grins sheepishly, eats his second roll with a touch more decorum. 

"My apologies, Naneth. My hunger got the best of me." 

"Yes," Erchirion says. "I'm sure it was your hunger." 

Lothiriel knows her brothers well enough to know that Amrothos is mere moments from tossing his remaining roll across the table, aiming for Erchirion's face. 

"We are going to Rohan, Am," she says. "For the funeral of King Theoden and the new king's coronation." 

"Oh, _are_ we now?" He says, and her stomach sinks at the wolfish grin he gives her. "Well, that _is_ good news, 'Thiri, is it not?" 

"Indeed," she says, quite primly, dipping her fingers into the nearby bowl of water, cursing the fact that her brother had not only their father's eyes but his own personal habit of being in just the right place at just the right time. He had been at the garden's entrance to see first the king's exit and then his own sister's, and he had spent the rest of the evening in questioning and teasing her. 

Imrahil's amused gaze settles on his two youngest. 

"Indeed it is," he says. "I expect you to act the part of young lords and lady of Dol Amroth. All three of you." 

A lesser man might have quaked at the expressions of utmost innocence in all three faces.

Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, only chuckles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I'm honestly a little stunned that the first chapter got as many kudos as it did. I wrote the start of this fic on a whim at, like, 1:30 am based on nothing more than a single image in my head. 
> 
> That being said, I still don't have much idea where this story is going to go. I'm as much along for the ride as you are! But I hope you enjoy it. I certainly plan to.


End file.
